


Secrets and Lies

by MichiganBlackhawk



Series: Secrets and Lies [1]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MichiganBlackhawk/pseuds/MichiganBlackhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic was inspired, oddly enough, by this picture <a href="http://www.angelfire.com/mi4/listentotheband/secrets/petersbass.jpg">here</a>. It’s approximately three months after the events of the episode Monkees Chow Mein. The guys have gained some rather interesting abilities along the way. Will they be able to keep them secret? This is an established story and the first in a long-standing series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Someone to understand them, and you just may be the one!” 

Peter waited a few moments, then effortlessly ran through the bass riff. Several girls who were huddled around the stage sighed; Peter grinned, shimmying his hips and listening in amused appreciation as two of them shrieked.

The high-pitched sound of Micky’s laughter reached his ears and he turned, grinning openly at the drummer. Peter returned his attention to the crowd; that was when he spotted them.

The girl was medium height, medium build, with long brown hair combed straight down the sides of her face. She was dancing by herself when a young man came up to her, smiling invitingly as he danced next to her. She frowned and moved away, and the young man followed, his grin growing wider. The song drew to a close, and the girl clapped, keeping her eyes firmly focused on the stage. The young man at her side wasted no time, slipping his arm around her shoulders and whispering in her ear. She placed her palms on his chest and firmly pushed him away; he grabbed her wrists and pulled her close as Mike counted off for ‘The Girl I Knew Somewhere.’ 

Peter watched as she struggled against him, trying to wrench away. Everyone around them was dancing and laughing, so her struggle went unnoticed. 

Suddenly the young man pulled her to him and kissed her; her eyes went wide and she looked right at Peter, silently begging him for help.

Peter looked behind him, spotting Micky’s spare drumsticks on the riser next to the bass drum. Ignoring the puzzled looks of his bandmates—who were obviously wondering why he hadn’t started to play yet—he grabbed one of the sticks. Straightening, he raised his arm and fired it at the young man. It caught the youth right on the temple with a loud crack; he reeled, his hand going to his head.

The girl looked at Peter and mouthed the words “Thank you” before disappearing into the stunned, silent crowd.

“Peter!” Mike shouted—not in surprise, but in alarm. “Uh, sorry about that, folks—we’re gonna take a ten minute break. We’ll be right back.” He unslung his guitar and grabbed Peter, hauling the dazed bassist from the stage as Micky and Davy brought up the rear.

“Peter, what the hell were you doin’?” he demanded once they were safely backstage. 

“He was grabbing this girl,” Peter explained. “He was hurting her. I had to do something, Mike.”

“Peter, that’s what the bouncer is for! You have a microphone in front of you! Use it!”

“I’m sorry, Mike,” Peter said. “I just reacted.”

Mike pulled himself up a little straighter and pinned his bandmates with a deadly serious look. “Guys, _reacting_ is just what’s gonna get us in trouble.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Mike, I’m really sorry.”

Peter heaved his bass into the trunk of the Monkeemobile, careful not to bang it against Mike’s guitar. The two cases were wedged next to Micky’s drums, which, as always, took up a large part of the trunk.

Mike grunted as he dug the keys out of his pocket. 

“No, Mike, please,” Peter said, lightly touching the Texan’s arm. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”

Mike sighed and shut his eyes. “I’m not mad, Pete. Honestly. I just . . . ” 

“I know, Mike. I know. I wouldn’t have done it if that girl hadn’t been in trouble.” 

“I know,” Mike said. “Let’s just go home, okay?”

Peter leaped nimbly into the back seat as Mike revved the engine and sent the dragster squealing out of the parking lot.

 

 

“Now look, guys,” Mike said, pacing in front of the couch where Peter and Davy sat. Micky sat in one of the armchairs, his legs propped up on the table. “We’ve been really careful so far, and no one’s ever caught on. Tonight just shows how careful we gotta be from now on.”

“Yeah, but Mike, that girl was in trouble,” Davy said. 

“I know, Davy, but that’s what the police are for. We are not the guardians of the universe.”

Peter sat up, his eyebrows drawing together. “Then what good is it, Mike? What good is it for us to have these abilities and not be able to use them?”

“Because, Peter,” Mike said, “every time we do we put ourselves in danger. The only reason we haven’t ever been found out is because we don’t use them.”

They all nodded.

A knock on the door made Mike jump, his fists rising. He stared at them as if they were foreign objects instead of his own hands, and he thrust them down to his sides with a dismayed snort.

Micky swung his legs over the arm of the chair and gained his feet, bouncing over to the door. It opened to reveal the girl that Peter had saved earlier that night.

Peter shot to his feet. “Hi! Uh, come in!” He darted around the table and jogged to the door, reaching out to grasp the girl’s hand. She took it, trembling slightly.

“M-My name’s Marie. I just . . . wanted to thank you, for . . . saving me.”

“My name’s Peter, and you’re welcome. I’m glad I could help,” Peter said, smiling openly. “Would you like to come in?”

Marie nodded shyly and entered, glancing around the Pad. She looked at Mike, Davy, and Micky uncertainly.

“This is Mike Nesmith, Davy Jones, and Micky Dolenz. We’re the Monkees,” Peter explained. 

Marie smiled. “Yes, I gathered that much. I just didn’t know your names. Pleased to meet you all.”

“Did you know that guy? Was he your boyfriend?” Davy asked.

Marie shook her head. “No. I never saw him before. Anyway, I just came to thank you,” she said, turning to Peter, “for helping me. I won’t forget it.” She leaned up and kissed Peter gently on the cheek before slipping out the door.

Micky whistled. “Not bad, Peter. She was cute.”

Peter grinned for a moment, then the smile faded. “Where was the harm in that, Mike?”

“Peter—” 

Peter looked up, his eyes intense. “Don’t ‘Peter’ me, Mike. When you can tell me where the harm was in that you let me know. I’ll be on the beach.” He stormed into the downstairs bedroom, emerging a few minutes later wearing an old black sweatshirt and jeans. He didn’t look at Mike as he headed for the back door.

Mike sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Go on to bed, guys. I’ll go and talk to him in a while.”

 

 

Mike waited until Micky and Davy were asleep before he wandered out onto the verandah. The full moon was bright and hovering over the ocean, a wide swath of light cut across the water. A lone figure was walking along the beach; Mike pulled off his hat and jogged out to join him.

Peter looked up as he approached. “Hi, Mike.”

“Hey, Peter,” Mike said, falling into step beside him. They walked in silence for a while, two friends who didn’t really need to speak to know what the other was feeling. 

“Mike, I’m sorry,” Peter said.

“It’s okay, Peter.”

Peter stopped, gently touching Mike’s arm. “I know, but I just needed to say it, okay?”

Mike scratched the back of his neck. “Okay. And . . . I want you to know I can see your point, Peter. I’ve been tempted myself a few times.”

Peter tilted his head as he gazed at Mike. “It bothering you?”

Mike continued to scratch the back of his neck. “No. It’s just the first time I’ve thought about it in a while.”

Peter grasped Mike gently by the shoulders and turned him so that the moon shone on his nearly black hair. He spread the dark locks with his fingers, revealing a small black tattoo on the back of his neck—the Chinese zodiac symbol representing the Horse.

“Still there,” Peter murmured, withdrawing.

“What about yours?”

Peter turned, pulling his long hair out of the way. A small symbol, several downward slashes with two vertical strokes next to a smaller character of mostly horizontal lines, was tattooed just below his hairline. The Monkey. There were similar tattoos on Micky and Davy as well—the Dragon and the Tiger, respectively.

“Clear as day,” Mike said. 

“Listen, Mike, I’ve been thinking,” Peter said, turning to face the Texan once more. “Why can’t we use these abilities? I mean, there can’t be anything wrong in using them for good. I don’t see why we should have to hide them like we’ve been doing.” 

“I know. And there’s part of me that agrees with you. But Peter—we’re musicians, not vigilantes. We start usin’ these . . . talents . . . and before you know it we’ll get sucked into somethin’ we might not be able to get out of. It’s safer if we just play it cool and concentrate on our music.”

“Hey Mike?” Peter said, tracing a line in the sand with the toe of his moccasin. 

“Yeah, Pete?”

“You ever get the urge to use them? You ever . . . go out and just . . . practice? On your own?”

Mike kicked at the sand. “Sometimes.”

Peter stepped back, raising himself up onto the balls of his feet. His stance relaxed, his arms hanging deceptively loose at his sides. “How about now?”

Mike nodded, taking up position a few feet away. The ramrod stance he usually adopted on stage disappeared, his legs bending into smooth angles as he extended his arms, his long fingers curling into tight, perfect fists. 

There were no shouts or battle cries as they clashed—only the quiet whispering of rapidly moving bodies and the soft sounds of their breathing. They moved back and forth across the sand in a ritual dance, their hands and feet making gentle taps as they kicked and swung at each other. 

“You’re getting better,” Peter said, pausing.

“You too,” Mike said. “You’re not even breathin’ hard.”

Peter gave Mike a small smile that was a far cry from his normal dimpled grin. “I think we should stop hiding, Mike. Imagine the good we could do with these . . . powers.”

Mike sighed. They’d become very adept at hiding, each one masking his unusual abilities in his own way. Micky covered it up with his clowning, Davy with his Don Juan-ish pursuit of women, and Peter with his innocent face and demeanor. Mike put his Texan good ol’ boy image to good use; no one except his bandmates would have ever suspected that he was capable of shattering boards with his slim, articulate hands.

“So . . . you value fightin’ more than music now, huh?” Mike said casually.

Peter started. “What?”

“Peter, we start usin’ these . . . powers, and you can kiss the Monkees goodbye. People’ll look at us different and we won’t be able to be who we are.”

Peter nodded. “I wish this hadn’t happened, Mike. Things used to be much more simple.”

Mike rested his arm on Peter’s shoulder, taking some solace in the blond man’s solid stance. “I know, Pete. I know.”


	3. Chapter 3

The night that the whole mess had started had begun so innocently, Mike reflected later that night when it became apparent that sleep was not going to come. 

Dragonman had not, it turned out, been the owner of the Chinese restaurant where the trouble had all begun. The real owner—a soft-spoken older man named Jo Liang—had been held prisoner until the Monkees had finally brought Dragonman down. Mike could still hear Mr. Liang’s trembling voice when he called them three days later, asking them to come to the restaurant so he could thank them properly . . .

 

 

They entered the restaurant cautiously, remembering all too well what had happened the last time they’d been within the establishment’s gaudy walls. Mr. Liang was there, waiting for them, bowing to each of them while thanking them profusely for saving him and his restaurant. He was several inches shorter than Davy and wore not the brightly colored pajamas of Dragonman, but a simple tailored black suit, a long, nearly white braid hanging down his back.

“It was nothing,” Peter said, bowing in return.

“Nevertheless,” Mr. Liang said. “Please, eat. As much as you want.”

“Are you sure you have enough food to spare?” Mike said, looking at Micky, whose eyes were already gleaming.

Liang smiled. “Quite sure. Come. You have earned it.”

The meal was one of the best of Mike’s life. Egg rolls, rice, chicken, spare ribs, stir fry—every conceivable kind of food was spread over two tables, with more brought out from the kitchen, promply replacing the plates and bowls they’d emptied. 

Mike was the first to lean back in his chair; his hand reached down, loosening his belt to accomodate his full stomach. Peter and Davy were next, and together the three of them watched as Micky continued eating for another thirty minutes before finally having to admit that he was full.

Mike glanced down at his watch. “You’re nowhere near your personal best, Mick. I’m surprised.”

Liang, who had stood nearby the whole time, supervising the flow of food from the kitchen, smiled. “He eats well,” he said. “I might go out of business with him as a customer.”

“Yeah,” Davy laughed. “It’s a good thing we don’t have money very often, then.”

Liang sobered. “You don’t need money here. You boys eat free from now on.”

Mike started to get up, protesting, but Liang quickly waved him back down. “Please. It’s the least I can do. You saved my life and my restaurant. I am in your debt.”

Shrugging, Mike sat back down. No sense arguing with him—especially since it meant not going hungry the next time they had a long stint of unemployment. “That’s very generous. I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“Say ‘thank you’, Mike,” Micky said. “‘Thank you’ and ‘we’ll be back tomorrow’.” Mike reached over and swatted Micky over the head.

“Can you answer one question?” Liang said, sitting down between Micky and Davy.

“Sure, anything,” Peter said.

“How did you defeat Dragonman?”

“Uh, well,” Mike said as the others all looked to him. He explained as best he could how he and Davy had come in—however, he decided to leave the Monkeemen out of his explanation. “ . . . and we used that big gong over there to keep them at bay until those CIS guys finally showed up.”

Liang sat back in his chair. “You mean . . . you didn’t fight him?”

“You mean like this?” Micky said, leaping from his chair and striking what he thought was a very effective martial arts pose. 

Liang nodded. “Yes.”

“No,” Micky said, returning to his chair. “We don’t know how to do that kind of stuff.”

“But . . . Dragonman was very dangerous! If you’re not warriors then how did you beat him?”

Mike shrugged, idly toying with the plate of fortune cookies that no one wanted. “I don’t know. Just lucky, I guess.”

Liang stood up quickly and bowed to them. “Excuse, please. I will be right back.”

 

 

The cooks working in the restaurant’s small kitchen looked up curiously as Liang quickly shuffled by, paying them no mind as he headed straight for a small door at the far end. He slipped inside, closing the door and bolting it behind him, his hand reaching for the string that trailed up to the room’s single bare bulb.

The room—little more than a closet with shelves, really—was lined with jars of all kinds. Some were lavishly decorated to resemble dragons or tigers, some were just plain glass preserve jars, covered with what looked like centuries of dust. He grasped along the shelves, his searching fingers leaving trails in their wake. He pushed aside several jars, finally unearthing a tiny white ceramic one from the back. Unlike the items surrounding it, its surface was pearly white and free from dust; it was plain and round, decorated with four Chinese characters in black ink.

“The jar of the Four Winds,” Liang murmured, cradling it carefully in his hands. It had been a perfect omen, one that he hadn’t ever expected to see in his lifetime. Connecticut-born Peter was the North Wind; Mike, with his slow Texas charm, was the South; Davy, from England, was the East, and Micky, who’d lived his life with the California sun on his shoulders, was the West. The likelihood that all four winds would be brought together . . . 

Liang opened the jar and pulled out four small, plainly wrapped white envelopes. Inside each was a dark bluish-green powder that gave the faint scent of graveyards and the sea. Liang took the objects out into the kitchen, where he ordered the nearest cook to bring four cups of hot water. “Quickly!”

When the water was set out he carefully poured the dark powder into each cup. He didn’t worry about spilling it; the powder seemed drawn to the water. It steamed and bubbled before calming, leaving an equal portion of dark liquid in each cup. 

“What is that?” the cook asked.

“Ssh!” Liang snapped. He took a clean white linen napkin and carefully wrapped the jar in it. Taking one of the mallets used for cooking, he smashed the jar, hitting it several more times before unwrapping it. He carefully weeded out the larger pieces until all that was left was a fine white powder; taking a small spoon, he poured a little bit into each cup. The cook—a young man whose traditional queue had been cut off long ago—watched silently.

“There,” Liang said, setting down the spoon. “It’s ready.”

The cook nodded. “But what is it?”

“My boy,” Liang said, carefully setting the cups on a tray, “this is just tea.”

“Tea?” the cook said, watching curiously as Liang carefully carried the tray to the dining room.

“Yes,” Liang said. “Very special tea.”

 

 

Mike looked up as Liang reentered the room. For a few minutes he’d thought that Liang wasn’t coming back and that it was his way of telling them to scram. But the old man was smiling as he set a tray with four teacups in front of them. 

“What’s this?” Peter said, taking a cup and staring at it with interest.

“It’s very special tea,” Liang said. “Gives strength and power to those who drink it.”

Mike sniffed his cautiously. It gave off an odor that, while not unpleasant, was very strong. 

“I’m not really a tea drinker,” Micky said, shoving his cup away.

“Micky,” Mike said sternly. “Don’t be rude.” He lifted the cup to his lips and took a long drink. The hot tea burned down his throat, leaving a thick, slimy aftertaste in his mouth that made him want to gag. With something of a make-do expression on his face, he downed the rest of it. This time, however, it didn’t burn, and it left a warm, delicious taste in his throat, almost as if he’d just drank the world’s richest coffee.

Next to him Peter released a deep, contented sigh. “That was great,” he said. 

Davy set down his cup. “What did you put in it? Honey?”

Micky shook his head. “More like oranges.”

“Oranges?” Mike said. “That stuff tasted like coffee.” 

“Coffee?” Peter said. “It was just green tea to me.”

Liang held up his hands, smiling. “Is special tea. It tastes different to people, like what they like to taste most.”

“Oh,” Mike said. He felt funny . . . full and sated and drowsy. “I think we have to go, Mr. Liang. It’s been a long day and we have a gig to play tomorrow.”

“I understand,” Liang said as they rose. “Please. Come back soon. You’re always welcome here.” He bowed and shook hands with each of them, crossing his hands quietly as they left. When they were gone he leaned over the table, looking into the bottom of each cup. The last few drops of tea had coalesced into four shapes that Liang recognized immediately. They were exactly where they should have been.

“Wu, shen, chen, yin,” he mused. 

The Horse, the Monkey, the Dragon, and the Tiger.


	4. Chapter 4

Mike got up, easing his legs out from under his covers. He slipped silently past Micky, something that was easily done since the night at Mr. Liang’s restaurant.

He went into the bathroom, squinting as he flicked on the light. He looked in the mirror, where his own dark brown eyes stared back at him underneath a wild tangle of black hair. 

He personally didn’t remember feeling any different. He’d awakened the next morning feeling well-rested and still pleasantly full, and the others had all agreed that the night at the restaurant had been one of the best meals they’d ever had. 

Life for the Monkees returned to normal, and after a time they completely forgot about the strange tea they’d drank. Mike, who spent a large part of his time being introspective anyway, was the first to notice changes in him and in his bandmates. Micky stopped running into things, his ‘hang up with his hands and feet’ disappearing completely. Peter stopped dropping dishes and whacking himself in the nose with doors. And Mike had been given quite a shock when he noticed that his right hand—which hadn’t been capable of making a complete fist since it had been hit with a sledgehammer when Mike was nine—now closed all the way.

Over the next month the changes had become evident to all of them, even to Davy, who’d always told the others they were imagining things. They were stronger and faster and more graceful, their reflexes were quicker, and it was—ironically enough—Davy who had discovered the talents which would later cause them so much grief.

He’d been wrestling with Micky—just their usual goofing around—when Micky had placed Davy in a headlock. Moving with a speed and grace that made Mike drop his coffee cup, Davy turned, throwing Micky over his hip and pinning him to the floor. 

It reminded Mike of a judo demonstration he’d once seen in high school, and that was when the first piece of the puzzle clicked into place. He knew that none of them had ever had any formal martial arts lessons, and yet as the weeks passed it became evident that they somehow had the knowledge hardwired into their brains. Intellectually Mike knew that he’d never set foot in any kind of karate or kung fu school, and yet going through complex series of punches and kicks suddenly came as easy to him as playing guitar ever had—easier, in fact, because unlike the guitar, he’d never had a lesson nor had he spent years practicing. 

And it was Mike who’d first discovered the tattoo on the back of Micky’s neck, the tattoo that would lead them to why they’d suddenly become four adept fighters in addition to being musicians. 

Peter and Davy had already gone out, having already eaten lunch, and Mike was by himself when Micky came in after several hours of surfing . . . 

 

 

“Hey, Mick, you’re gettin’ sand all over the floor!”

“Sorry, Mike,” Micky said, unrepentant as he plopped into a chair after making himself a sandwich. “I’ll clean it up later.”

“Yeah, like next spring, right?” Mike grumbled, wincing as his boot crunched over some of the sand Micky had tracked in with him from the beach. “I’ll go get the broom. This stuff is like to drive me nuts.” He stood up, going to the closet and returning with the broom and dustpan that, he suspected, Micky and Davy had never touched. As he approached the table he saw something odd, something that made him pause. 

Micky’s hair was still wet from his long morning in the water, and the damp curls hung loosely on the back of his neck. In amongst the curls was something that at first Mike thought was some kind of insect. After a few seconds—during which the ‘insect’ never moved—he realized it wasn’t and figured that it was some kind of scrape or scratch, no doubt incurred during one of Micky’s klutzy moments. 

But Micky hadn’t had any klutzy moments lately, at least none that Mike had seen. He came closer, the problem of the sand momentarily forgotten, and leaned in to get a better look.

A strange symbol stared up at him. It was oriental, though whether it was Chinese or Japanese Mike couldn’t tell. “You go and get a tattoo recently, Mick?”

Micky spun around. “Huh? Tattoo?”

“On the back of your neck. There’s this weird symbol.”

Micky’s eyes went wide and he clapped his hand over his neck. “Symbol? What is it what did it come from honest Mike I didn’t go out and get a tattoo honest—”

“Micky!” Mike said, halting the drummer’s babbling. “It’s okay. Now turn around.” He ran to the bandstand and grabbed his music book and a pencil; he placed the book on Micky’s shoulders and quickly sketched the tattoo.

“You mean that’s what’s on my neck?” Micky said, studying what Mike had drawn.

“Pretty much, Micky. Either this is someone’s idea of a practical joke or something funny’s going on here.”

“Do you have one on your neck?”

Mike started. “Mine? Why would there be?”

Micky shrugged. “C’mon, lemme look.”

Mike sighed and turned around, pulling off his hat. “Okay, fine.” Micky stood up and pushed Mike’s hair out of the way. “Well Mike, I have good news and bad news.”

“And what is that?” Mike said.

“Good news is you don’t have dandruff. Bad news is . . . you have one of those funky symbols on you, too.”

“What!?” Mike said, spinning around. He immediately brought his hand up to his neck, scratching as if he could remove it.

“Yeah, Mike, you do.” Micky took Mike by the shoulders and turned him around. He held the muttering Texan still as he quickly drew the shape tattooed on Mike’s neck.

“So that’s it, huh?” Mike said, staring down at the pad.

“Looks Chinese or something,” Micky murmured.

Mike looked at Micky and together they mouthed the same word: _Chinese?_

 

 

“It all leads back to Mr. Liang and that weird tea we drank,” Mike said later that evening. Peter and Davy also had symbols on their necks.

“How do you know that, Mike?” Davy asked.

“Because those symbols are Chinese, and near as I can figure all the weird stuff that’s been goin’ on started when we came back from dinner that night.”

“How do you know they’re Chinese, Mike?” Peter asked, still rubbing the back of his neck as if he could feel the tattoo. 

“Before you guys came back I went over to the library and found a book of Chinese characters. Librarian helped me to find them.”

“So what do they mean?”

Mike leaned back, crossing his arms. “They’re symbols of the Chinese zodiac. Mine’s the Horse, Micky’s is the Dragon, Davy, yours is the Tiger, and Peter . . . you got the Monkey.”

Peter grinned. “At least it’s appropriate.”

“How come I couldn’t get the Horse?” Davy said. 

“Hey, man, you got the Tiger,” Micky said, twirling one of his drumsticks in his agile fingers. “Quit complaining.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re the Dragon, Micky.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Micky said, smirking.

“All right, guys, enough,” Mike said, smiling despite himself. “We gotta go to Mr. Liang’s and get this sorted out. Tonight.”

 

 

Mr. Liang’s restaurant was quiet, with just a few patrons sitting in the corner. When the Monkees entered the waiters immediately rushed over, smiling and welcoming them and offering to get food.

“Not right now,” Mike said. “Is Mr. Liang here? We kinda have to speak to him.”

One of them bowed and immediately led them to what Mike recognized as the Dragonman’s former office, the one he and Davy had burst into to save Micky and Peter. Liang was sitting at his desk, poring over some papers; he leapt to his feet as they entered, bowing. “Hello again! Welcome! You want food?”

Mike shook his head. “No, actually we came to talk to you, Mr. Liang. We have a problem.”

Liang nodded. “You need money?”

“We always need money,” Micky said, moments before Mike’s elbow hit him in the ribs.

“No,” Mike said. “We came about these.” He turned, pulling his hair aside so Liang could see the mark on his neck. Peter and Micky and Davy followed suit. “What are these marks and why are they here?” Mike said, turning back around.

Liang’s smile faded a little. “Wu, yin, chen, shen,” he said.

“What does that—” Davy began, but Mike cut him off.

“Yeah, those are the names of these symbols. We know they’re the Chinese zodiac, but why are they there? And how come we know how to fight all of a sudden? All this started when we drank that strange tea of yours.”

Liang nodded. “It’s true. But I gave you tools, that’s all.”

“Tools?” they echoed.

“Yes, tools. Four Winds are very special. Must know how to fight. Protect yourselves and others.”

“Whoa, back up a minute,” Micky said. “‘The Four Winds’?”

“Yes.” Liang crossed his office to the map of the world that hung on the wall. “East,” he said, placing one gnarled finger on Manchester. “North.” He pointed to Connecticut. “South.” He stabbed at Texas. “West.” He tapped California. “Warriors from the Four Winds come together, strong, powerful forces at work.” He wove his fingers together tightly. “You are the Four Winds. Fight against evil.”

Mike shook himself out of his momentary bewilderment. “Now wait a minute. We’re not warriors, Mr. Liang. We’re a band.”

Liang unwove his fingers. “I found out about you.” He counted off. “You fought gangsters, thieves, spies, all types of villains. My granddaughter was in a club, she saw you fighting a big man. Going up against guns, fists, knives, swords. Now you can fight, so you don’t need to worry.”

“So you gave us these . . . powers so we can protect ourselves when we get in trouble?” Peter said.

Liang nodded.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Peter said, smiling.

“Listen, we didn’t ask for this,” Mike rumbled. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d just undo what you did. We’re not fighters and we don’t intend to start, thank you.”

“There is no ‘undo’,” Liang said, shaking his head. “It’s permanent.”

“What!?” Mike roared. “You mean we’re gonna be like this for the rest of our lives!?”

Liang didn’t flinch at Mike’s outburst. “Yes. Now you are strong and powerful. My job is finished.”

 

 

Mike sighed and flicked off the light, his eyes—much sharper since the incident with the tea—adjusting almost immediately to the dark. He crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up, crossing his arms as he nestled beneath them.

Permanent.

The word had rung in their ears for some time. Their strange new abilities—and the tattoos—would never go away. Although Mike had to grudgingly admit that there were worse fates, he hated the idea of being pushed into something he hadn’t asked for. He didn’t exactly blame Mr. Liang; the old man had simply been doing something he thought would help. But he still wished almost every day that they’d been allowed to choose.

He’d insisted upon secrecy, drilling into his friends how important it was that Mr. Liang be the only other person who knew about them. He didn’t want to lose the band and he was certain that if anyone else ever found out, a world of trouble would follow.

_And now Peter wants to use them._

Somehow he had to convince Peter, make him see how dangerous his desire was. If he didn’t . . . it might end up getting them all killed.


	5. Chapter 5

“Well, Peter, I’m glad you see things my way.”

Peter shrugged. “You were right, Mike. I guess if I have to choose . . . I’ll stick with the band.”

Mike looked up at the darkening sky. He and Peter had gone out to get new strings for Peter’s bass and drumsticks for Micky, but their quick shopping trip had turned into a long walk through the city streets and around the park while they talked. Mike put aside his usual reticence and told Peter about his concerns, his gut-solid certainty that turning into vigilantes or crimefighters would only lead to misery for them all. 

“Don’t you remember what happened when Davy bought those maracas with the microfilm in them? We got shoved into settin’ that trap for Boris and Madame. You an’ Micky got thrown into a wall and I got knocked out. You remember that whole deal with Dragonman? You and Micky could have gotten really hurt or killed.”

“Yeah, but Mike—we can fight now. I know it doesn’t mean we’re invincible but at least now we have a way to defend ourselves. We didn’t have that before.”

“But see, Peter—that’s exactly my point! The other times we’ve gotten mixed up in stuff we’ve come out okay because . . . well, I mean, when we set that trap for Madame and Boris we had Honeywell in the other room just in case. They weren’t gonna just toss us into danger with no help ‘cause they knew we weren’t trained fighters or spies or whatever. But now . . . they wouldn’t have a reason to care, because we’re the Four Winds and we can take care of ourselves. You understand, Peter?”

Peter did, reluctantly admitting that Mike had a good point and though there was a part of him that still disagreed, he had to admit that Mike had the band’s—and his friends’—best interests at heart. 

“C’mon, man. It’s gettin’ dark and we better get back home ‘fore Micky goes and calls Missing Persons on us.” 

Peter nodded, and together they headed down the street back to the Pad.

“Hey Mike,” Peter said, pausing. “You feel something?”

“Something like what?” Mike said, turning to face his friend.

“Like . . . something’s not ri—” Peter said, his words cut off as a pair of hands grabbed him and yanked him into a dim, narrow alley.

“Peter!” Mike shouted, leaping into the alley after him. Another pair of hands grabbed him and slammed him up against the wall next to Peter, who was being held firmly by the same young man who’d been hit in the head with a drumstick the night before. 

“Hey, hey, easy,” Mike said. 

“Shut up!” the young man snarled, digging his hands a little deeper into Peter’s shirt. “Think you’re tough, do you? Throwing sticks at people from a stage like a damn coward?”

“You were hurting that girl,” Peter replied, his eyes narrowing. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Oh yeah? Well maybe you’ll let me do this!” The young man cocked his arm back and snapped a punch that would have hit Peter directly in the eye. Moving like a striking viper, Peter grabbed his fist; turning neatly on his heel, he slid out of the way and smashed the young man into the wall face first. 

Mike took advantage of the distraction; he reached around and grabbed his man by the right sleeve, wrenching him around. He smacked the man on the head and spun him around, pinning him against the wall. “Surprise,” he said.

Another three men appeared out of the darkness, blocking their escape. A quick glance to his left confirmed his suspicion—the alley was a dead end. Mike quickly released his man and backed away, Peter joining him. They stood back-to-back as all five advanced. The young man that Peter had smashed against the wall now had a long scrape on his cheek in addition to the red welt on his temple. “What’re you gonna do now, huh?” he growled.

Mike glanced at Peter and knew they were thinking the same thing. For all their knowledge neither one had actually used their skills in a real fight. Mike raised his eyebrows, a look which clearly asked, “Well?”

Peter nodded, then turned to their foes. “We fight,” he said, raising his fists.

 

 

“Man, I wish they’d get back already,” Micky said, pacing anxiously around the Pad. 

“Micky, will you relax?” Davy said. “They’re probably out talking and lost track of time, that’s all.”

Micky hopped up and down on the balls of his feet, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. The tension between Mike and Peter had really unnerved him; for his part he agreed with Mike about keeping their skills a secret, but he also had to admit that Peter had a point. _If Peter hadn’t nailed that guy I would’ve_ , he thought, feeling a fresh rise of anger at himself for not noticing her predicament. _Okay, Dolenz, relax. You’re just mad because she was cute and Peter got there first._ Though it wasn’t something he would just blurt out, Micky wanted to be the one to save a damsel in distress just once. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m just kinda nervous, that’s all.”

“Nervous about what?” Davy said, standing. “It’s gonna be okay, ma—” He stiffened, his huge brown eyes going wide. 

“Davy?” Micky said, already crossing the Pad to Davy’s side.

“Mi . . . run . . . ” Davy mumbled, collapsing into Micky’s arms. 

“Davy! Davy!” Micky said. There was a small needle protruding from Davy’s neck, and Micky looked up, his eyes spotting a man in gray suit standing at the back door, a gun in his hand.

Micky set Davy down onto the couch and lunged for the back door, senseless anger surging through him. The man stepped into the house, bringing the gun up and firing it. Micky felt a sharp pain in his side and stumbled, his hands grabbing for the needle stuck between his ribs. He pulled it out, staring in horror at the blood-slicked shaft. “You bast . . . ” he began; his tongue thickened in his mouth and he fell to his knees, the eclectic furnishings of the Pad whirling around him until he thought he’d be sick.

“Just relax, son,” he heard a voice say from a million miles off. “The less you struggle the better off you’ll be.”

“Nnno!” he groaned, swinging blindly at the blurry shape in front of him. His hand connected with air and he hit the floor hard, panting and trying to get to his feet and fight. A pair of hands seized him and held him down. He tried to kick and struggle, but his limbs refused to obey him. He blinked his burning eyes and tried to focus on the faces hovering over him. “Who . . . ” he murmured.

Blackness.

 

 

“Peter! Head’s up!” Mike swung his attacker around and Peter ducked, sending the man tumbling over his shoulders to the ground.

Mike’s fears about their untested prowess had disappeared as soon as the men blocking the alley had attacked. His body had responded instantly, his limbs and muscles relaxing until they were in striking distance, then unleashing with a flurry of blows that left his attackers reeling. Peter stood beside him, his fists and feet striking stomachs and sides with uncanny accuracy, his face pinched into a look of concentration that Mike was used to seeing only when Peter was playing music.

An arm wound around Mike’s neck, locking around his throat. Instead of panicking Mike leaned forward, bringing his heel up into the man’s groin with a solid thud. As he was released his elbow smashed into the man’s chin, knocking him down—and out. 

As the last of their attackers collapsed—felled by a neat karate chop from Peter—Mike could hear a new sound over that of their breathing.

The sound of a single person clapping.

He and Peter turned as one, their fists still raised. Mike could see the dark shape lurking in the shadows as the clapping continued, echoing in the now silent alley.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

The shape moved, stepping out into the dim light. 

“What do you want?” Mike groaned, his eyes focusing on the face of CIS Agent Modell. 

Modell smiled coldly as he finally ceased his applause. “That was quite a performance. Two against five, and neither of you have a scratch. I’m impressed.”

Mike stiffened, glaring. “And we’re leaving. Bye.” He and Peter started forward, halting when Modell drew his gun. 

“I don’t think so. You’re coming with me.”


	6. Chapter 6

“All right, so you brought us here. What do you want?” Mike growled, crossing his arms over his chest. He and Peter stood in what they recognized as Inspector Blount’s office, although there had been a few changes since the last time they’d been there. 

“I’m curious as to how you managed to hurl a drumstick through a tightly packed crowd and hit a person so precisely on the head, after so fervently convincing us that you were merely harmless musicians.”

Peter gave Modell a shy, innocent smile. “Lucky shot?”

“Wait a minute—how’d you know about that?” Mike said. “Most of the people in the club didn’t notice!”

“The CIS has eyes and ears everywhere,” Modell said cryptically.

“Whatever,” Mike snorted. “We’re not talkin’ to you, Modell. Where’s Inspector Blount?”

Modell leaned back in his chair. “Former Inspector Blount was promoted because of that whole Dragonman case. Apparently the higher ups confused his imbecility for brilliance. Doesn’t matter. I was promoted to take his place—you may call me Inspector Modell now.”

“Listen!” Mike said, pounding his fist on the desk. “Whatever you want, Inspector, we ain’t doin’ it!”

“Oh no?” Modell said. “I think you will.”

“Is that right?” Mike said. “How you figure that?”

Modell’s smile grew unbearably cold. “Because you two are guilty of assault and battery. You beat up five people and left them unconscious in an alley.”

“That’s not true!” Peter said. “They attacked us and we were defending ourselves! And we left them there because you kidnapped us!”

Modell laced his hands behind his head. “Perhaps. But with one phone call to the police I can see that you two are locked up for years. Unless . . . ”

“Unless what?” Mike said, a terrible dead weight dropping into his stomach. _I knew it. I knew this would happen . . ._

“There’s a den of spies holed up in the warehouse district who’ve stolen some top secret files from the CIS. We’ve been trying to infiltrate them for weeks with no success. You are going to use your peculiar talents to sneak in and get those files back.”

“And if we say no?” Mike said. 

“Then you and your blond friend here will go to jail. And I’ll make sure it’s for a long time.”

Mike turned away, his fists and teeth clenched. Peter, whose posture and bearing were much quieter but just as angry, cleared his throat. “And if we do this . . . job for you, you’ll leave us alone?”

Modell nodded. “Until such time as we need you again.”

Mike whirled. “Now wait just a damn minute! You’re gonna keep blackmailin’ us to do your dirty work whenever you want!?”

Modell let his hands drop. “Very good, Nesmith. Smart boy.”

With a furious roar Mike lunged for Modell, leaping nimbly onto the desk. The two agents who’d been standing guard over them grabbed him, dragging him off the desk in a spray of papers. Mike gritted his teeth as a hand roughly seized him by the hair and a gun barrel was jabbed under his chin.

“Don’t move!” Modell snapped as Peter started for Mike. “This is not a game, gentlemen. Either you do the job or go to jail. It’s your choice. You have thirty-six hours to either retrieve the files or turn yourselves over to the police.” He looked at the two agents. “Get them out of here.”

As Mike and Peter were dragged away a third agent stepped out of the shadows. “Really, Inspector. Don’t you think that was a little rough?”

Modell shook his head, picking some of the papers up off the floor. “Those boys are more than what they seem, Blackly. You were in that club. You saw Tork throw that drumstick. You tell me if that was too rough.”

The agent shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell them about Dolenz and Jones? Why the whole calling-the-police charade?”

Modell smiled. “I choose my bluffs carefully, Blackly. When Tork and Nesmith get home and find their friends missing . . . the threat of the police will seem like child’s play.”

The agent nodded. “It all just seems . . . kind of dirty, sir.”

Modell’s head snapped up and he glared fiercely at his subordinate. “We need to get those files back, Blackly. At all costs.”

“Even those musicians, sir?”

“Yes, Blackly. Even them.”

 

 

Micky groaned. _Man . . . why’d they have to hit me with a truck?_ The floor underneath him was smooth and bitterly cold, raising sluggish goosebumps on his arms. He rolled onto his side, panting and trying to focus on the bare wall across from him. The room still spun wildly and he gagged, flopping onto his back once more. _Oh, that guy is so dead for shooting me with this stuff_ , he thought as his body weakly fought off the last of the powerful sedative he’d been injected with. He finally managed to prop himself up on his elbows, the great gasps of air he pulled into his reluctant lungs clearing his head. 

_Davy! Where’s Davy?_ He twisted around, but the room was empty. “Davy!” he cried hoarsely.

“He can’t hear you. He’s still out.” 

Micky whirled at the sound of the disembodied voice. “Who’s that? Where am I? Where’s Davy?”

The small window in the room’s single door closed; the door opened and a man entered. At first glance Micky thought it was Honeywell; the man had short black hair and a pair of black glasses, but this man was much younger, probably only a few years older than he was. “I’m Agent Blackly, Mr. Dolenz. You’re in the CIS headquarters. Don’t worry—your friend is fine.”

Micky crawled to his feet. “Where is he? I want to see him!”

Blackly shook his head. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible. You and Mr. Jones are our guests for now.”

“Now wait just a minute!” Micky shouted. “I want out of here right now! You can’t just hold us prisoner like this!”

Blackly’s polite smile disappeared. “We can and we will, Mr. Dolenz. We’re sorry to have to resort to these methods but it’s a necessity, I’m afraid.”

Micky nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I get it. Well listen, Blackly, I’m sorry too.”

Blackly’s facade wavered. “S-Sorry for what?” 

Micky’s eyes—given their almond shape from his Cherokee ancestors—flashed, and before Blackly could give a single thought to his predicament, Micky had leaped forward, grabbing him by the shoulders and delivering a solid blow to the agent’s midsection with his knee. 

Closing the door behind him, Micky ran out into the corridor, running blindly for the window at the end of the long hallway. When he was about five feet away shouts began echoing down the hall after him and he picked up speed, taking only enough time to make sure he was on the first floor before diving through the window, glass shattering in his wake. He hit the pavement hard and rolled, gaining his feet, oblivious to the small, merrily bleeding cuts on his face and arms. 

“Stop him! Get him!” someone shouting, the voice spurring his legs into action. He took off running, sprinting desperately for the high chain link fence that stood between him and freedom. Using the skinniness for which he’d often been teased, he shinnied up the fence and threw his body over the top, gritting his teeth at the pain that ripped through his arm as he dropped to the ground. 

CIS agents were swarming towards the fence, their gray suits and stony faces indistinguishable from one other. Micky scrambled to his feet and took off into the city, hoping that Davy was okay and that he’d find Mike and Peter in time.

 

 

Modell looked up as Blackly stuck his head into the office. “What do you want?” He noticed Blackly’s disheveled state. “What happened?”

“Inspector, I, uh . . . I made another mistake,” Blackly said, his voice trembling.

“What now?” Modell said. No one in the CIS but Modell knew that the reason the files had been stolen in the first place was that Blackly had been left in charge, and had fallen asleep at his post, allowing the spies to sneak in, lock him in a closet, and rifle through the files at their leisure. _If only he wasn’t my brother in-law . . ._ Modell thought with a restrained sigh.

“It’s Dolenz, sir. He’s escaped.”


	7. Chapter 7

Mike watched the plain black CIS car roar off down the street, tugging his wrinkled shirt back into place. “Those guys need to learn some manners. C’mon, let’s go tell Micky and Davy what happened . . . then we’ll think of something.”

As Mike opened the door to the Pad the hairs on his arms stood on end. The house was still and quiet. Way too quiet.

“Mike?” Peter said nervously.

Mike waved for him to be quiet. “Micky! Davy! Where are you guys!” He checked the downstairs bedroom while Peter checked the upstairs. “Any luck?” he asked as Peter descended the stairs.

“No,” Peter said. “I’m scared, Mike. Something’s happened to them.”

“Now, Peter, don’t get worked up yet. Maybe they went out to the beach or someth—” Mike stopped dead when his eyes fastened on a small object, glinting in the lights that had been left on unattended. He walked over, the saliva in his mouth chalky and bitter. Bending down, he picked up the object at looked at it. It was a small needle with a thin metal cylinder attached. There was blood on the needle, as well as a few drops on the floor. “Oh man,” he whispered.

“Mike, there’s another one over here,” Peter said, sinking onto the couch, holding another small needle in his trembling fingers.

“What happened?” Mike murmured, turning the needle over and over in his hands.

“They took them, Mike. Those CIS men. They came here and took them.”

Mike looked over his shoulder. “Peter, how do you know—”

“I just know, Mike. It’s so we’ll do what they want. Maybe . . . maybe they figure that we’re not scared of the police, but . . . since they have Micky and Davy . . . ” He trailed off, his eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry, Mike. This is all my fault.”

“Hey, Peter, stop that right now,” Mike said. “There’s no way you could have known this would have happened.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t thrown that drumstick—”

“Hey, Peter, listen,” Mike said, crossing the room to Peter’s side. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. I realize that now. Someone somewhere was gonna find out about us, and . . . maybe I was just foolin’ myself to think we’d be able to keep it secret forever.” 

Peter nodded. “I still feel bad, though.” 

“Yeah, well, I do too.”

Peter sighed, bringing a hand up to massage his temples. “What’re we going to do now, Mike?”

For the first time in a long time Mike had to admit—to himself, which was always the hardest of all—that he didn’t know what to do. “I don’t know, Pete. I really don’t.”

The front door—which Peter hadn’t closed all the way—opened, and Peter and Mike both leapt to their feet, fists raised. 

“Micky!” Peter shouted, leaping over the table and chaise to support the drummer as he staggered in, making it only a few feet before collapsing. 

“Peter, over here!” Mike hissed, pulling out a chair from the kitchen. Peter half-carried Micky over to it, easing him down as Mike ran to close the door and lock it. 

“Micky? Micky, can you hear me?” Peter said, kneeling down in front of his injured friend.

Micky nodded. “Yeah, Pete . . . I hear ya.” His arms were a bloody mess, and long red scratches like warpaint marred his cheeks and forehead. The left sleeve of his formerly blue shirt was sliced to ribbons and stained dark red.

“Micky, what happened?” Mike said, returning from the bathroom with every bit of first aid paraphernalia he could carry. He and Peter stripped off what was left of Micky’s shirt as the drummer explained, in short, mumbling sentences, what had happened to himself and Davy.

“ . . . and then I took off. Knew I had to get home . . . tell you guys.” His left arm at the elbow had cuts in nearly a dozen places from the top of the chain link fence. Blood ran down his arm in sluggish rivulets as Mike and Peter worked together to clean the wounds.

“Do you know where Davy is?” Mike asked, trying to keep his voice calm. Micky had been through so much—there was no sense making it worse by shouting.

“No. I didn’t get a chance to look for him. Mike, what do they want?”

“You never mind about that now, Micky,” Mike said, holding a gauze pad around Micky’s arm as Peter wrapped a long bandage around the limb. “You need to get some rest first.”

Micky didn’t argue with his bandmates as they led him into the downstairs bedroom and tucked him into Peter’s bed, his snoring beginning as soon as his head hit the pillow. Peter made a quick trip to the bathroom to wash his hands; when he emerged Mike was standing on the bandstand, staring out at the night sky. His hands were still stained with Micky’s blood.

“Hey Mike?” Peter said softly.

Mike turned. Peter was at once awestruck and terrified by what he saw lurking in the Texan’s dark eyes. Rage and righteous indignation burned within them, nearly setting them on fire. Peter could feel them boring straight into his own. “Peter, we are not going to do the CIS’s dirty work. They can’t just go around forcing people to do their jobs for them simply because it’s too messy or too dangerous. I’m not gonna let Modell push us around. We’re gonna get Davy back and somehow I’m gonna find a way to make Modell sorry he ever even knew us.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Mike? Mike, c’mon—it’s already ten o’clock!”

Mike’s brain, still fuzzy from its long slumber, slowly awakened, his eyes focusing on Peter’s concerned face. “Huh? It can’t be . . . I just shut my eyes five minutes ago!”

Peter pointed to Mike’s bedside clock. “Take a look for yourself.”

Mike sat up, rubbing his eyes and running his fingers through his sleep-tangled hair. “Is Mick up yet?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. I made him some breakfast. He’s eating right now.”

Peter left while Mike showered and dressed, not even bothering to tuck in his shirt or put on a belt. It didn’t seem to matter much now. He walked down the stairs to the kitchen, his mind awake and alert, his body already loose and limber, even though he knew from the previous day’s activity that he should have been sore in six dozen places.

Micky was sitting at the table, drinking down the last of his orange juice. Several empty plates sat in front of him, testaments to his exhaustion-fueled appetite.

“How you feelin’, Mick?” Mike said, turning a chair around backwards and sitting down.

Micky shrugged. “Okay. Doesn’t hurt much this morning. What are we going to do about Davy?”

“Don’t worry, Micky. We’re gonna get Davy back without doin’ anything for the CIS. I promise.” He sincerely hoped his voice carried more authority than he was feeling. He didn’t know how they were going to get Davy back; his mind worked furiously as he watched Micky scrape the last crumbs from his plate. Something. He had to think of something and fast.

“I know, Mike, but . . . how?”

Mike’s brow furrowed with the force of his frown as he looked at his bandmates—Peter, standing by the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, and Micky, whose scratched face looked somehow both weary and energized in the cold light that poured in from the gray sky outside the windows.

“I think it’s time we pay Mr. Liang another visit. We got these powers—might as well find out exactly how far they go and how we can use them to rescue Davy.”

 

 

Blackly looked down at their remaining ‘guest.’ He was short; shorter than Blackly himself, who was used to craning his neck to look his boss in the face. And young—so young that he didn’t look old enough to be able to drink alcohol in the very clubs in which he played.

With a moan the boy’s eyes fluttered open, and Blackly took an involuntary step back, his hand trailing to the gun holstered at his side. It was the first time Modell had let him wear one since his unfortunate mishap with Agent Morris, who would go through the rest of his life with only nine toes.

“Where . . . am I?” he said, his hands moving weakly against the iron shackles that held him in a straight-backed chair.

“You’re in CIS headquarters, Mr. Jones. No harm will come to you—provided you don’t try to escape.”

“Escape?” Jones’s eyes opened wide. He began tugging at his restraints in earnest. “Wait a minute? What is this? You can’t keep me here!”

“Please, Mr. Jones. I’ve heard it all before from your friend.”

The young musician’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Blackly swallowed the lump that rose up in his throat. “Where’s Micky? What have you done with him?” he demanded.

The facade of the calm, collected spy was not something Blackly had yet mastered, and there were times that his tongue behaved like a half-tamed horse, breaking away from his brain and running free. “He’s not here. He escaped,” he said, immediately clapping his hands over his mouth when he realized what he’d done. Jones’s eyes lit up triumphantly, and Blackly could already hear Modell’s angry shouting.

“Then you’d better keep an eye on me, then. I might just follow him.”

 

 

Mike pulled the Monkeemobile to the curb half a block from the restaurant. The three Monkees got out, walking casually down the street lest any CIS agents were watching. Mike carefully scanned the area, looking for any unusual people or cars. He didn’t notice any, and released the tight breath he’d been holding in his chest.

The restaurant was completely empty except for a petite young woman sitting at a table nearby, delicately lifting rice to her mouth with a pair of chopsticks while her dark, narrow eyes scanned the pages of a magazine laid out on the table before her. When the Monkees entered she looked up, her jet black hair whipping over her shoulder.

“Is Mr. Liang here?” Mike asked without bothering with niceties like ‘hello.’

“What do you want with him?” she asked, taking in the stern, forbidding expressions on their faces.

“It’s okay,” Peter said. “We’re friends.”

She nodded. “Yia-yia!”

A few moments passed, then Liang shuffled out of the office. He looked at the Monkees a little nervously, obviously remembering the tension that had prevailed the last time they’d been there. “Yes?”

Mike quickly explained the situation. “They still have Davy. We gotta get him back.”

“And what do you expect my grandfather to do?” the young woman said, crossing her arms.

“An-mei!” Liang snapped. “These are honored guests!”

“No, it’s okay,” Peter said quickly. “We just want to know exactly what it is that we can do.”

Liang raised a suspicious eyebrow. “You don’t know?”

Mike shook his head. “No. Up until know we’ve never used any of this stuff. Never had to.” It was true—for all the trouble the Monkees seemed to be a perpetual magnet for, they hadn’t run into any trouble in the time between the drinking of the tea and Peter’s defense of Marie.

Liang looked flustered. “An-mei, you talk. My words are not good enough.” He began speaking rapidly in Chinese, with An-mei smoothly translating.

“Your senses have all been heightened, given the sharpness that warriors possess. Your strength and flexibility have been doubled, and your reflexes are animal swift. As the Four Winds your skills are beyond compare.”

Mike whistled. “Wow. Sounds . . . uh, different when you put it like that.”

“Now you see?” Liang said. “Breaking into a building is no problem for you.”

Mike bit his lip, musing for a few moments. Saving Davy wasn’t enough—somehow they had to insure that the CIS would leave them alone. Otherwise it wouldn’t even be worth fighting for.

 

 

It was only after spending almost an hour struggling that Davy realized that his shackles weren’t going to budge, and the chair was firmly bolted to the floor. Blackly had left him alone after only a few minutes; apparently the young CIS agent wasn’t the type to dominate his captives, but rather leave them to solitude and let their own wild thoughts and fears serve as their enemies.

Davy, however, was spending less time dwelling on his predicament and more time trying to think of a way out of it. The iron bracelets were firmly welded to the arms of the chair, but as Davy slowly rotated his hands within them it dawned on him that the cuffs were just a little larger than was required for his wrists. He curled his hands, straightening his fingers, and slowly began working them free. It was a slow, painful process, especially when his knuckles caught the edge and he was obliged to pull them through, tearing several layers of skin off in the process. Finally his left hand was freed with a yank, his right following several moments later.

Leaping from the chair, he slid over to the door and stood on tiptoe to see through the small window. The hallway outside—at least the tiny portion he could see—was empty. He tried the doorknob experimentally; it was, of course, locked.

“Damn,” he muttered. “What a time to be without a battering ram.” He paced back and forth in front of the door, trying to figure out how to escape. If Micky could, why couldn’t he?

The sound of voices alerted him and he quickly flattened himself against the wall next to the door. The voices paused, and a few moments of nearly perfect silence passed before the door was flung open and two CIS agents—who looked distinctly panicked—burst in.

“Where is he?” one shouted.

For the first time in his life Davy thanked God for the small stature that allowed him to slip out easily and slam the door behind him. Ignoring the loud shouting and banging that would guarantee the appearance of more agents, Davy took off down the corridor. He didn’t care that he might be heading deeper into the building; the need to escape had taken hold and made his feet even swifter as he rounded the corner and took the flight of stairs three at a time.

Shouts echoed behind him and he stopped, looking frantically down to identical corridors. Which one? With a quick “eenie meenie miney moe” he took the left-hand one, running to the end, then veering sharply to the left.

Dead end.

“Shit!” he gasped. Pounding footsteps were already thumping behind him, and he knew that he was trapped.

Except . . .

Glancing to his right he spotted a door. Praying it wasn’t locked, he grabbed the knob and wrenched it; to his absolute relief it opened and he darted inside, slamming it behind him.

A few moments of harsh, rapid breathing slowly yielded to the realization that he wasn’t alone. His gaze lifted from the hardwood floor to the figure sitting behind a huge mahogany desk, and his eyes widened when he realized who it was.

“You!”


	9. Chapter 9

Mike perched on the edge of the roof, allowing the cool night breeze to ruffle his dark hair. The dizzying height didn’t bother him now, even as he crouched on the edge of the roof, with nothing between him and the pavement far below but air.

“Do you see them yet?” Peter asked. Like Mike he was crouched on the edge of the roof, dressed in a form-fitting black jumpsuit with a dark red sash around his waist, securing in place two short blades pressed up against his back. Mike idly ran his fingers over the staff resting on his thighs. Liang had armed them all, as well as giving them the clothing that was much more appropriate for night maneuvers than button-down shirts and hiphuggers.

“No. They should be along soon,” he murmured.

“Are you sure what we’re doing is right?” Peter asked.

“No,” Mike said. “I’m not. But we don’t have much of a choice. The CIS decided to mess with us. We’re defending ourselves.” Privately he admitted that he sounded much more confident than he felt.

Peter nodded, returning his gaze to the night sky. “I don’t want to fight anymore, Mike. I want things to go back the way they were.”

Mike sighed. “Peter, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but things are never gonna be the same for us again.” He shuddered at the heavy, ominous words.

Peter seemed about to say something when Mike cut him off. “Ssh! Here they come!”

 

 

“So, how about after this you and I go on a real date?” The pretty Chinese girl on his arm smiled. “And I promise, no fortune cookie jokes.”

She laughed. “Maybe.”

“Maybe? What kind of answer is maybe?” Micky said. He pulled the light gray coat a little tighter around himself, hoping he didn’t look too awkward.

“Maybe’s maybe,” An-mei said. “If you survive this silly little raid, I’ll consider it.”

Micky grinned. “We will,” he said. “Those CIS guys won’t know what hit them.”

An-mei’s grip on Micky’s arm tightened a little. “All the same, if you three become overconfident, it might be your downfall.”

Micky kissed her hand. “We won’t. I promise.”

They continued walking, looking like nothing more than a couple out for an evening stroll. Micky pretended to lean in and whisper something in An-mei’s ear, glancing behind them at the two gray-suited men who’d been following them for nearly three blocks. _I wonder if they know how obvious they look._

“How much farther?” she whispered.

“Not far,” he murmured. “It’s this alley coming right up . . . ”

“And your friends?”

“They’re there, waiting.”

An-mei gave Micky’s arm another squeeze. “Good luck. I hope you find your friend okay.”

“Thanks.” He heard the footsteps behind him as the CIS men closed in. “Okay, you better run. Go on. We’ll catch up with you later.”

“All right.” An-mei discreetly pulled her arm free and gave Micky a quick kiss on the cheek; with the grace of a sprinter she turned and took off down the street while Micky leaped into the alley. To his relief both CIS agents followed him and not her.

“Halt! Stop right there!” one shouted; Micky immediately froze, raising his hands. “Okay, I give up!” he said, adding a little tremble to his voice. “Don’t hurt me!”

“Don’t move,” one of them said. “Agent Barrett, go and tell Inspector Modell that we have Dolenz.”

Micky hid his smile as two groans immediately followed two dull thuds; he lowered his hands and turned around. Mike and Peter stood over the insensate bodies of the two agents. “What took you guys so long?” he said.

“We were on the roof, Micky.”

Mike bent down and quickly rifled through the pockets of the agent lying at his feet. “Found it, guys,” he said, pulling out a small white card with a black strip. “You ready?”

Micky pulled off his coat and tossed it aside, straightening his belt. “You bet, Mike.”

“All right,” Mike said. “Micky, you and Peter go and find Davy. Make sure he’s okay.”

“What about you, Mike?” Micky asked.

“I’m goin’ after Modell,” Mike said darkly.

“Michael, please be careful,” Peter said as they stepped over to the door. Mike slid the card through the high-security lock, holding his breath as the heavy bolt slid aside. “Okay, guys—this is it.”

 

 

Davy struggled to keep up with the quickly walking figure. “Where are we going?”

“To get to the bottom of this,” came the gruff reply. “I never approved any of this, Mr. Jones. I hope you know that.”

“Of course I know that!” Davy said as they rounded a corner. “You know, I never would have guessed that’d you be in charge now.”

The other man stopped, his dark eyes narrowing fractionally. “And why is that?”

Davy shrugged. “I don’t know. You just didn’t strike me as the type—no offense.”

A quiet snort. “None taken, I assure you.”

With an ominous flare the lights suddenly went out. Davy and his companion stopped.

“What now?” Davy said.

“I think your friends have arrived, Mr. Jones. Come on—we have to work quick now.”

 

 

“Nice job, Micky,” Peter murmured as Micky took a step back from the massive fuse boxes. “That should confuse them long enough for us to find Davy.”

“Yeah,” Micky said, pulling the two weapons that bore some resemblance to police nightsticks from his belt. “Let’s roll, Peter.”

“Micky,” Peter said, reaching out to grasp the curly-haired man’s arm. “We’re just supposed to find Davy. We’re not here to get into a fight, man.”

“Who’s getting into a fight?” Micky said, twirling the sticks. “But if one comes to me I’m going to be ready.”

Peter sighed. It was no use trying to talk Micky out of brandishing his weapons—besides, they were already wasting valuable time. “Come on, let’s go.” They crept silently down the hall, Peter walking forward, Micky backward—the better to keep an eye out for any ambushes. They found a staircase and quickly ascended to the first floor, where the harried shouts of bewildered CIS agents—and the accompanying scattering of flashlight beams—could be found.

“It was this floor?” Peter whispered to Micky.

“Yeah,” came the hushed reply. “Otherwise I couldn’t have dove through that window.”

“Right.” Peter took a step back, allowing Micky to take the lead. He now walked backwards, keeping a sharp lookout for any marauding CIS agents.

“It was around here, I think . . . ” Micky said, trailing off as he began peeking into rooms.

“You think?” Peter hissed.

Micky glanced over his shoulder, his eyebrows drawn together in annoyance. “Yeah, I think! I was more concerned with getting out of here than writing down the room number!”

Peter sighed. _This is going to take a while . . . I only hope we find Davy in time._


	10. Chapter 10

Mike darted quickly around the corner at the sound of approaching voices. As they passed by he allowed himself to relax only slightly. He still didn’t know how he was going to force Modell to leave them alone—or even if such a thing were possible. Part of him desperately wanted to unleash his powers on Modell, pummeling the arrogant secret agent into pulp. But he couldn’t do that. No matter how satisfying it might have been in the short run, in the long run it would only make matters worse.

He reached Modell’s office without running into any CIS men; they all seemed to be occupied with the power outage that Mike knew was Micky’s handiwork. He slipped inside, carefully easing the door closed behind him. The office was dark and still, impeccably neat save for the small pile of papers on the desk. Holding them up to the light that streamed in from the street, he quickly rifled through the papers, not bothering to pick up the ones that fell on the floor.

“Nothing here,” he murmured, moving to the filing cabinet behind the desk. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, but he was sure that he’d know it when he found it. “C’mon, Modell . . . there’s gotta be at least one thing you’ve done wrong . . . ”

He was so intent on digging through the endless manila folders that the arms that snaked around his neck and shoulders caught him completely off guard. They wrenched him around, slamming him face first into the wall and holding him there with a leverage that could only come from someone taller.

“Snooping around, are we?” Modell said. “I knew taking Dolenz and Jones would bring you here.”

Instead of struggling, Mike relaxed in the inspector’s grip. “They’re my friends. By the way, I saw what you did to Micky.”

“We didn’t do that, Nesmith. He chose to run from us. Doesn’t matter now. You’re all here now, I suspect; after you’re all rounded up we’ll get down to business.”

Mike’s muscles tensed and he threw himself backward, bracing both feet on the wall, giving himself the sudden power he needed to throw Modell off balance. He wrenched himself around, breaking free from Modell’s grip. “Like hell we will,” Mike growled. “We’re not doin’ anythin’ for you. Period.”

“Is that right?” Modell sneered, drawing his gun. “I know you’re fast but I doubt you’re faster than a bullet. If you won’t cooperate, then I’m afraid I have no choice.” Mike tensed as the barrel of the gun lifted, training on him.

 

 

“He’s not in any of these rooms,” Micky sighed. “Man, I don’t even know if they even put him here!”

“Calm down, Micky,” Peter said, looking behind him. “We just have to keep looking, that’s all.”

“Yeah, but what if he’s not even here at all?”

Peter paused. “Then we find someone who can tell us where he is.”

Micky’s dark brows drew together and Peter could almost feel the rage flowing from him. He turned on his heel and headed for the distant sound of voices. 

“Micky!” Peter hissed desperately, running after his friend. “Micky, what’re you doing?!”

Micky turned the corner, heading straight for the two CIS agents standing by a door. Their flashlight beams converged upon him as he leapt at them, sending one to the floor with a powerful kick, and pinning the other to the wall, his arm wrenched up behind his back. “Where is he?” Micky demanded, jamming his knee even further into the man’s back. “Where?!”

“Where’s who?” the man groaned through clenched teeth.

“You know who! My friend! Where’d you put him?”

Peter just watched helplessly, not knowing whether he should leap in and pull Micky away or just let Micky wrench the information out of the helpless man. His attention was so riveted on Micky that he didn’t see the pair approaching from the other direction until their faces became visible. His jaw dropped. “Davy! What—?”

Micky froze. “Davy?” He turned, releasing the agent, who slid to the floor with a pained grunt. “Whoa!” he said, focusing on Davy’s companion.

“No time to explain, Micky. I’m fine. Where’s Mike?”

“He went up to Modell’s office,” Peter said, coming closer to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. “He’s going to find some way to make him leave us alone.”

Davy’s companion turned to face him. “We have to get up there now. I think I finally understand what this is all about.”

 

 

Mike stared intently at the gun. _He’s right. I’m not faster than a bullet. But I just might be faster than his aim . . ._ Carefully tensing his muscles, Mike leaped for all he was worth, diving over the desk and rolling, his ears ringing from the sound the gun made as it went off, sending a bullet whizzing harmlessly over his head. 

“You little punk!” Modell spat, taking aim and firing again. Mike sprang forward, tucking and rolling before popping up near the far wall. Modell cursed and fired again, and again, and again; each time Mike acted as a human spring, launching himself safely out of the way.

 _One more bullet_ , Mike thought. _He’ll have to reload—that’s when I can take him down._ Once more Modell squinted in the dim light, getting an approximate fix on Mike before he pulled the trigger. Mike darted out of the way, sliding up onto the desk and curving his shoulders in anticipation of the drop to the floor. Instead a ripping, flaring pain tore through his back and right shoulder, sending spirals of numbness through his arm. He hit the floor with a cry, his left arm reaching for the edge of the desk in a frantic attempt to pull himself back up. He couldn’t leave himself vulnerable.

“Seems I’ve wounded you, Nesmith. Now maybe we’re on equal footing.”

Mike slowly pulled himself to his feet. “How do you figure that? You still have the gun, remember?”

Modell looked down at the weapon. “You’re right.” He tossed it away, where it landed in the corner with a thump. “There. No more gun. Now let’s see how tough you really are, Nesmith. Even wounded you should still pose a threat to me . . . if you are indeed capable of doing what they say you can do.”

Mike just glared. “Why? What did we do to deserve all this?”

“Deserve all what?” Modell replied. “You boys decided to fight back, instead of just doing what you were told. I didn’t cause this—you did.”

Hot rage exploded within Mike and he lunged for Modell, his hands curling around each other in the tiger position; the V formed by his thumbs and forefingers would smash into Modell’s throat, bruising—or possibly shattering—his windpipe.

The door swung open at the same moment that the lights flared back to life; Mike stumbled, the sudden burst of illumination stunning him. He was blinking, trying to get his bearings back, when Modell’s doubled fists slammed into his head, sending him to the floor.

“Mike!” He dimly heard the shout, followed by the sounds of a struggle. A pair of hands wrapped around him, lifting him up; opening his eyes, he saw Peter’s concerned face. “Are you okay, Mike?” he asked.

“Yeah, Peter, m’fine . . . Modell?”

Peter helped him to sit up. Davy and Micky were both wrestling Modell to the ground with the energy and efficiency that rage afforded them. Slowly becoming aware that there was someone else in the room, he turned his head, his eyes widening.

“Honeywell??”


	11. Chapter 11

“Yes, Nesmith. It’s me.” Honeywell took a further step into the room. The short haircut and horn-rimmed glasses were still in place, but his manner was more at ease, more confident than it had been before. 

“Chief, these are the men!” Modell said, struggling in Micky’s and Davy’s grip. “They’re responsible for stealing those files! It was them!”

“What!?” Mike roared. “That’s a lie!”

“Enough!” Honeywell thundered. “Relax, Nesmith. I know that it’s a lie. You four are innocent of any wrongdoing.”

Modell’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “But, Chief—!”

“Don’t ‘but’ me, Modell. I know all about your little scheme to force these boys to do your dirty work for you. Spare me your story.”

Mike just stared. _Chief? He’s a chief now?_ “Would someone mind tellin’ me what’s goin’ on here, please?”

“He’s the head of the CIS now, Mike,” Davy said.

“He is?”

Honeywell smiled. “It was largely thanks to you. I got a promotion to inspector for bringing Boris down, and when we caught Madame in China I was promoted to chief.”

Mike scowled. “We’re the ones who brought Boris down.”

Honeywell chuckled. “Yes, but you weren’t CIS agents. Otherwise you would have gotten the promotion. In any case, Modell here was promoted to inspector after the Dragonman case was resolved—”

“Which also wouldn’t have happened without us,” Mike pointed out.

Honeywell nodded dismissively. “Shortly thereafter I began to suspect that Modell was allowing a junior agent named Blackly to safeguard top secret files—a direct violation of CIS security. So I arranged a little ruse.”

Mike’s jaw dropped. “You stole the files!”

Honeywell nodded. “Very good, Nesm—Mike. I had some of my agents dress up in clothing similar to yours here,” he said, pointing to their outfits, “and sneak into this office, stealing some particularly sensitive files.”

“Chief, that’s unethical!” Modell protested as two CIS agents entered the room.

“So is blackmail and kidnapping to cover up your mistakes, Modell.” Honeywell turned to the agents. “Men, take Junior Agent Modell up to my office. I’ll deal with him shortly.”

Mike tightly grasped Peter’s arms as he crawled to his feet. The deflated, defeated look on Modell’s face almost made him feel sorry for him. Almost. “Are you going to kick him out, then?” he asked once they were gone.

“No,” Honeywell said.

“What?” the Monkees roared. 

“Boys, boys, please,” Honeywell said, raising his hands. “As much as he’s made a mess of things, he’s still one of the best agents we have. I’m hoping this little demotion will humble him sufficiently. And I promise that he will never interfere with you four again. You have my word.”

Mike nodded. “Thanks, Honeywell. We appreciate it.”

“Mike, you’re hurt!” Peter said, spreading the tear in the back of Mike’s shirt.

“Got shot,” Mike murmured.

Honeywell crossed the room to Mike’s side and took a closer look. “Looks like it grazed you. Come on—we’ll take you down to the infirmary and then I’ll have a car take you home.”

 

 

“Well, all’s well that end’s well!” Micky said, flopping back onto the couch. Mike grabbed a nearby pillow and hurled it, clobbering the drummer on the side of the head.

“So what now, Mike?” Peter asked from his spot on the bandstand. His fingers idly plucked at Mike’s old acoustic. 

Mike sighed. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. I mean, our secret’s out, so . . . hiding isn’t really an option any more.”

“So we’re gonna use them after all?” Micky asked, his eyes flashing with excitement.

“I didn’t say that, Micky. Just ‘cause we don’t hide them doesn’t mean we can just go out and . . . beat people up.”

“Oh. So . . . what are you saying?”

Mike sighed. “We only use them when we have to. We don’t go struttin’ around just showin’ off how tough we are.”

“I agree,” Peter said.

“Me too,” Davy said after hesitating.

“Micky?”

The drummer sat gnawing his lip, clearly debating things over in his head. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “It’ll be nice not having to run from anyone now.”

Mike and Peter exchanged looks; Mike suspected that it wouldn’t be that easy with those two. All it would take was one pretty girl—whether she was in distress or not was a moot point—and they’d be right back in it.

“Good. Then we’re agreed.” As the others settled in to watch TV, Mike wandered over to the closet, quietly opening the door. He peered into the back, where four identical black jumpsuits hung side by side on four wooden pegs. His hand reached out, touching the smooth, polished wood of the five foot staff leaned up against the wall, then moved to the sheathed blades hanging from their belt. The gracefully curving bow with its accompanying quiver of red-feathered arrows sat waiting in the other corner. Mike sighed, his fingers closing over the door as he carefully eased it shut. 

Somehow he knew that it would only be a matter of time before they’d have to open the closet again.


End file.
